


Your Pulse is the Only Thing I Can Remember

by VictoriaPyrrhi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3616935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaPyrrhi/pseuds/VictoriaPyrrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve sometimes cooks for Bucky, Bucky sometimes sleeps on his couch. Nothing is exactly the same, but it's not really different either. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try to find a new normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Pulse is the Only Thing I Can Remember

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snarky-Synesthete](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Snarky-Synesthete).



> Written for one of my dearest friends on the occasion of her birthday. Thank you for dragging me, kicking and screaming, into Steve/Bucky.

The fact of the matter is, Steve had a plan for when they finally caught up to Bucky. Because there wasn’t any other option--one way or another, he was going to catch up to him. What Steve hadn’t anticipated was, after everything that had gone down--after “Who the hell is Bucky”--that he wouldn’t get the chance to catch up to Bucky.

 

But here he is, eyes wide and staring at Bucky, who’s standing on his welcome mat, shifting almost imperceptibly from foot to foot. If Steve didn’t know what to look for, he never would have noticed. For a long moment, he’s sure that he’s hallucinating the whole thing. He’d been sound asleep, crashing hard and fast after the kind of mission that had had him awake and moving constantly for the last 48 hours. Hallucinations would not be out of the realm of possibility no matter how much the super serum has altered his body’s chemistry. 

 

Except--he’s had this dream before and it usually involved a lot more yelling and joy and touching. Kind of an embarrassing amount of touching, actually. And this--everything feels so real, despite the heavy exhaustion Steve can still feel behind his eyelids. 

 

He means to say a lot of things--come in, how are you, are you alright--what comes out as he’s partially slumped against the doorway is, “Nice pants.”

 

Bucky appears to take it all in stride, hands shoved deep into a pair of tattered jeans, and gives him the ghost of a smirk. Steve steps away from the door, but where once Bucky would have barged in like he owned the place, now he stands just outside the threshold and shifts again. Steve blinks for a moment, still half asleep, but finally gestures for Bucky to come inside. 

 

“Thanks,” he says finally, and Steve isn’t sure if he means for the pants comment or for letting him in or what. He’s still kind of stuck on the fact that Bucky is in his living room at 8 am on a Wednesday morning. “Nice place.”

 

Steve rolls a shoulder. “It’s all right,” he agrees. “Keeps the rain off and the rats out.” And that of all things is what draws a real smile out of Bucky. 

 

“Yeah, I bet it does.” 

 

For a long moment, they just stand there in the middle of his living room, and it’s awkward in a hundred little ways and familiar in a hundred more. He can’t really be sure if it’s James Buchanan glancing around at the pictures he’s managed to hang on the walls or if it’s the Winter Soldier looking for an escape route while quietly judging the throw Steve’s got draped over the back of his IKEA couch, a gift from Mrs. Benson four doors down, left on his welcome mat three months ago. 

 

The sun’s just starting to filter in through the windows and the curtains. Steve would really rather go back to bed, but Bucky’s still standing in the middle of his apartment, and Steve didn’t have to drag him here, and the least he can do is go ahead and make some coffee or something. His stomach rumbles a little in the quiet and he’s pretty sure that there’s a pack of bacon in the fridge he could fry up, too.

 

Steve rolls his shoulders. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to go--” he gestures in the direction of the kitchen, and Bucky nods a little. He shifts away as Steve walks past him, despite there being plenty of room. Steve pads his way into the kitchen, bare feet sticking just a little on the tile floor and presses the start button on the coffee maker. Sometime in his post-mission haze he’d apparently managed to set up a fresh pot, and he spares a moment to thank post-mission Steve’s foresight. 

 

The pack of bacon is exactly where he left it. He’s 99% sure that it’s still good, even if he can’t quite remember when he bought it. He could throw it away, but his stomach makes that noise again, as if he could forget the fact that his metabolism is off the charts, and figures that they can risk it. He can’t remember the last time he got sick post-serum.

 

It isn’t long before the smell of the coffee perks him up a little, and it--he sniffs again, a little deeper. It’s not his usual blend, and perhaps post-mission Steve wasn’t as on top of things as he had initially thought. He recognizes the smell though, and pulls his phone of of his pajama pants’ pocket to send a quick  Thanks to Natasha. 

 

She sends back some kind of inexplicable tiny picture; he thinks it might be a thumbs up. He’s focused on the bacon, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t notice when Bucky comes slinking into the kitchen. 

 

“Take a seat, if you want,” he offers, and he thinks it’s the Winter Soldier who slides the chair out carefully and sits down with barely a sound. Steve knows for a fact both of his kitchen chairs creak and squeak at the slightest provocation. 

 

Half the bacon ends up crisped and the other half cooked just enough to be firm without being underdone. Bucky used to like his bacon just this side of cooked, while Steve preferred his to crumble if you looked at it wrong, but there was no guarantee that that still held true, and well, bacon was bacon. Steve would eat it no matter what. 

 

He goes ahead and doctors his coffee with cream and sugar, but when before he would have just thrown in a splash of cream into Bucky’s mug, he hesitates. He does so long enough that he draws Bucky’s attention. 

 

“Just cream,” he says. Steve nods, and something in his chest loosens just a little. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he knows, but it  could and that’s enough for him right now. Eggs, scrambled, get divided between two plates; the bacon is on another plate, and then he’s sitting across from Bucky.

 

He’s almost uncomfortably aware that this could be a thousand different breakfasts they’ve shared together over the years. The table’s different, the chairs, the kitchen--but he’s sat across from Bucky just like this for countless mornings. Except it isn’t just the setting that’s different. Bucky’s different, the time is different--hell, Steve’s past fooling himself-- he’s different, too. 

 

They eat in relative silence. Steve doesn’t ask what Bucky’s doing here, and Bucky doesn’t offer. He reaches straight away for the bacon that’s a little on the underdone side, though he does sneak a piece of Steve’s barely-not-burnt bacon. The face he makes when he bites into it is both familiar  and hilarious and Steve completely fails to hide a chuckle behind his coffee mug. Bucky eats it anyway, quick bites that speak of the kind of hunger where you eat what’s in front of you, and it doesn’t matter how much it does or doesn’t appeal to you. It’s not the first time Steve’s seen him eat like that.

 

He lets Steve take his plate and clear the table when they’re done eating, but Steve can feel his eyes following him around the kitchen.

 

“I gotta go take a shower,” Steve says finally, one hip resting against the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of his little apartment. “You good?” He doesn’t ask if Bucky’s going to stay--he’s not sure he wants to know if the answer is going to be no. 

 

Bucky nods and stands, leather pants that would be utterly ridiculous on anyone else creaking faintly. They contrast with the utterly plain grey tshirt he’s wearing and the even plainer black hoodie. 

 

“Thanks,” he says, following Steve back into the living room. His voice is still a little rough. 

 

“Any time,” Steve says, rummaging in one of his book shelves. The fake book isn’t too hard to find, though if you didn’t know what you were looking for, it would look like any other paperback copy of  All Quiet on the Western Front . Steve’s never read it, but he’s heard it’s good. He doesn’t feel a particular call to find out for himself.

 

He opens it and leaves it sitting on the coffee table, the spare key to his apartment gleaming shiny and unused in the little hollow.

 

When Steve gets out of the shower, he’s not surprised to find that Bucky’s gone. But then again, so is the key. He scrubs a hand through still-damp hair and smiles. It’s enough.

 

\-----

 

It isn’t like Steve forgets. He has a lot to do cleaning up lingering S.H.I.E.L.D. messes, wrangling the other Avengers as needed, but he doesn’t  forget . Not a day’s gone by since Bucky fell, since Steve woke up, that he hasn’t thought about him. So it’s only a little surprising to him when he comes home, still a little grimy from helping physically dig out the remains of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, to find Bucky asleep on his sofa. 

 

Steve wants to say that his friend at least looks relaxed in sleep, but that would be a lie. His face is pinched, brow furrowed. His hair is still long, tangled and unkempt on the throw pillow he’s shoved under his cheek. There’s a hint of stubble there that Steve knows is at least three days old. 

 

All this he gets in a moment. By the time the door shuts, Bucky is upright, all traces of sleep gone, his entire body tense and ready. Fight or flight. Once, Steve was pretty sure he knew which Bucky would have chosen. Now, he’s not so sure. But Bucky’s here and on his couch, so maybe, just maybe, he’ll get the chance to learn again.

 

“Hey Buck.” His voice is maybe a little quieter than normal, but it’s even, conversational. Like coming home to Bucky passed out on his sofa is just a standard Thursday. 

 

“Hey Steve.” There are dark circles under his eyes, but the gravel in his voice is the only indicator that he’d been asleep just moments ago. He glances over Steve and raises one eyebrow. “Rough day at the office?”

 

Steve grins, pushing a hand through his hair and kicking up a fair bit of dust and dirt. He can feel it streaking his skin and lurking under his short nails. “It usually is these days. Hard to do the 9 to 5 when you’re the one who blew the office into a thousand bits.”

 

“9 to 5 is overrated, anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “Yeah it is. I’ve got some chicken in the fridge—“ he starts.

 

“Fried?”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Try baked.”

 

Those hangdog blue eyes haven’t changed. “Baked? Really? Aren’t we in the twenty first century? No one bakes chicken anymore, Rogers.”

 

“ I bake chicken,” Steve defends, aiming for offended and missing by a good margin. He knows he’s about to start beaming at any moment; so he moves past Bucky and into the kitchen. The chicken’s almost thawed in the fridge, and Steve puts it out on the counter.

 

“Weak,” Bucky says. He’s still facing the door, but Steve can hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Delicious,” he corrects. “I’m going to go clean the rubble off and get started on dinner.” He doesn’t ask if Bucky will stay. He either will, or he won’t and Steve won’t be the one to push him, not even for something this small.

 

This time when he gets out of the shower, Bucky’s still there. He’s still there, and in Steve’s kitchen, pan full of chicken simmering on the stove. Steve adjusts the towel wrapped around his neck and wonders if he should clear his throat.

 

“I can hear you thinking, Steve.” Bucky looks back over his shoulder. “Even if I couldn’t, I could still hear you breathing. Thought you got over that mouth-breathing thing years ago.”

 

Steve rolls a shoulder and parks himself next to the stove. “Old habits die hard. I thought we were baking the chicken.”

 

“Yeah,  you thought that.” Bucky flips the chicken breasts and shivers a little as the hot oil pops him on the flesh forearm. 

 

“I’m making steamed veggies,” Steve insists, like that’s really going to show Bucky what for.

 

“Yeah, you do that, champ. I was going to start rice, but I couldn’t find it.” He frowns a little, like the thought actually bothers him.

 

“I’m...not sure I actually have rice?” Steve says. “Maybe?” He levers himself off the counter to rummage in his tiny pantry. It takes him a minute, but he finds it, tucked away behind the 6 boxes of Girl Scout cookies he may or may not have bought in a daze of American spirit and Thin Mint cravings. Clint had tried to make fun of him for it, but Steve didn’t think that any human could genuinely resist the charms of little girls full of entrepreneurial gusto.

 

And well. Thin Mints.

 

“Got it!” 

 

Bucky gestures with the tongs to a pan he’s already got out.

 

They eat dinner together that night, chicken fried and tender, steamed vegetables over rice, sitting at Steve’s little table in the kitchen. Bucky picks at him for not owning a rice cooker, and Steve rolls his eyes and ribs Bucky for not letting him bake the chicken.

 

Bucky disappears after dinner, but after that, it’s like a dam has broken. 

 

\-----

 

Every few days, Steve will come home to find Bucky has been in his apartment, or is still  in his apartment. He isn’t sure what, precisely, it is that Bucky’s been doing. He’s still a Person of Interest for what remains of S.H.I.E.L.D. and just about every single world power out there. He can think of a dozen people who would personally like to get their hands on the Winter Soldier. But the guy who dozes on his couch, who lets Steve cover him up with the afghan that had mysteriously appeared at the foot of his bed not long after he’d gotten to D.C.--that guy isn’t the Winter Soldier. 

 

He knows that that guy isn’t Bucky, either. Not really. But then again, sometimes Steve isn’t really sure how much of him is still Steve Rogers, sick little nobody from the Bronx, always picking un-winnable fights. So he feeds Bucky and they watch TV occasionally, and Bucky uses his shower, and when he washes henleys that aren’t his, Steve doesn’t blink, just folds them up and puts them on top of the dryer. And ultimately, he’s not sure that it matters that they’re not who they once were. It’s human nature to change. Steve doesn’t think that just because so much of their change was from extenuating circumstances, it makes much of a difference.

 

Observant as he is, it doesn’t really hit him until he comes home one day and is grabbing a fresh undershirt after his shower. His drawer, once full of a pile of identical white t-shirts, is now full of--he picks up a piece of black fabric--what appears to be an amalgamation of shirts and underwear that are emphatically Not His. 

 

After that, it’s like he can’t  stop noticing all the little changes. An extra pair of running shoes tucked under the edge of the couch, a few more books squirreled away on his shelves. There’s a phone charger that isn’t his in the socket closest to the couch and food that he didn’t buy in the fridge. There’s an extra razor in his shower, but not, Steve notes, extra shampoo or soap, which--well. He’s sure he doesn’t know, and that tight feeling in his chest doesn’t bear examining. 

 

More often than not, he’ll wake up to find coffee brewed and breakfast--be it a bowl of cereal or actual facts cooked food--laid out. Sometimes Bucky will still be there, eating or just finishing up. Sometimes he’ll be gone already. Very, very rarely, he’ll still be asleep on the couch.

 

Sometimes, Steve thinks about moving to a larger apartment, or maybe just getting another bed, or a futon. But he never does. He’s convinced that the other Avengers know about Bucky’s visits, but they never say anything. Every so often Tony will get this look in his eye, like he’s about to say  something , but Pepper and Nat both appear to have developed some kind of seventh sense when it comes to Tony Stark, and he usually ends up distracted because one of them has smacked him on the back of the head. Banner-- Bruce \--just shakes his head and smiles like he knows some kind of secret, which, it’s not like Steve is actively trying to keep Bucky a  secret . He just doesn’t see the need to announce that the former Winter Soldier likes to show up at his home unannounced and that maybe Steve gave him a key. 

 

Natasha  definitely knows. 

 

But she also doesn’t say anything, so he thinks that’s probably good, and resolves to get her a bottle of that really expensive vodka she prefers. 

 

\-----

 

On a Tuesday, Steve puts the food away as Bucky washes the lasagna pan. The kitchen, while having plenty of space for Steve, starts to feel just a little cramped with two large men in it, but they manage to work around each other almost seamlessly. Bucky makes a noise, and Steve’s already handing him the dishtowel from where it’s draped over the oven door handle. His fingers brush faintly warm metal, and Steve’s breath catches. It’s just a little hitch, but he knows that Bucky hears it from the way his shoulders tense as he takes the dishtowel and finishes drying the pan. 

 

It’s late February and unseasonably warm for D.C.--unseasonably warm everywhere, the meteorologist insists. Steve had opened the living room windows earlier rather than turn on the AC already. Bucky’s concession to the warmth is a tank top. His metal arm glints under the recessed lighting in the kitchen as he concentrates on drying the everloving hell out of that lasagna pan.

 

Steve takes it from his hands to put it away. Their fingers brush again, and this time he’s prepared for the sensation. Bucky doesn’t look him in the eye, but he doesn’t flinch either, and a little of the tenseness seeps from his shoulders. 

 

Later, as they sit together on the couch, Bucky absorbed in his book and Steve vaguely paying attention to  Jeopardy , Bucky tucks his feet up and underneath Steve’s thigh. They’re a lot colder than his arm; Steve suspects that it has something to do with the fact that Bucky refuses to wear socks once he’s finally made the decision to take his shoes off. On the television, Alex Trebek introduces a new category, General Knowledge, and Steve rests his hand on the bony knob of Bucky’s ankle. 

 

\-----

 

Early March finds D.C. stuck in one last gasp of a cold spell, and when Steve comes home to frigid apartment and Bucky wrapped in blankets with a mug of cocoa in one hand and a spare steaming on the coffee table next to him, his hearts stutters in his chest. It’s not like he doesn’t  know . Steve thinks that he’s always known.

 

Bucky glances up from his nest of blankets with a scowl. Steve doesn’t even bother hiding his laughter. 

 

“You can’t possibly be cold,” he says, tosses his coat towards the armchair. 

 

“It was 70 two weeks ago,” Bucky mutters, glowering as if the whole of weather deciding to personally affront him. Steve knows as well as Bucky that the weather doesn’t affect them all that much. 

 

“And now it’s 25,” Steve supplies helpfully. “Is that for me?” He nods at the mug.

 

“We, I didn’t make two mugs for myself.”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow as he unties his boots. “Are you sure? Because I seem to recall one Christmas--” 

 

Bucky’s face goes blank for a second before he clears his throat. “That was  once .” He gestures at the mug, still steaming faintly. “You lucked out this time.”

 

Steve sits on the couch, unable to fully shake the awkwardness of the moment. He wants to stop putting his foot in his mouth. He  knows the kind of trauma Bucky went through. Bucky’s told him enough in halting bits and pieces--half remembered missions and lifetimes. Stark and Nat have filled him in on most of the rest. Next to him, Bucky exhales sharply and flips up some of the blankets. 

 

“The heat’s out. Get under here and drink your damn cocoa, punk.”

 

“Jerk,” Steve murmurs, but he grabs his mug and worms his way under the offered blanket, let’s himself be arranged to Bucky’s exacting but unknown standards. He sips at his cocoa, which is perfect. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s Bucky’s cocoa. Bucky tucks his feet up under Steve’s thigh again because apparently this is just--a thing they’re doing. For a long moment, they just sit. Steve slowly relaxes as he absorbs the warmth from the mug and from their shared body heat.

 

“You know, it’s ok,” Bucky says finally. Steve cuts his eyes over to look at him. “My memories are coming back--you don’t have to be afraid to say something.” His face has that pinched look again, and Steve wants to do something--to reassure him or smooth that line away with his thumb or--

 

“It’s really not,” he finally says. “I should be more aware of what I’m saying.”

 

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You’re already fucking--tip-toeing around me.”

 

“I’m--”

 

“You  are . You’re acting like I’m made of glass--like I’m just going to fucking break apart if you say something that makes me remember. I  want to remember, Steve. I’d rather it hurt a little and I get a piece of Buc--of  myself \--back than watch you look like you kicked a puppy when you say anything about the past.”

 

His heart is somewhere between his guts and his throat, and definitely,  definitely not where it’s supposed to be. Steve swallows--swallows his words, swallows the sick feeling in his chest. Next to him, Bucky makes that noise again deep in the back of his throat--part growl, part pure frustration. Steve’s known that noise for as long as he’s known Bucky, but he doesn’t know how he can say it.

 

“Fuck, Steve.” Bucky looks away, metal hand clenched tight in the afghan, jaw clenched. He feet are still shoved under Steve’s leg though, and Steve latches on to that like a lifeline.

 

“I just--” he starts. Stops. Swallows. Tries again. “I’m not afraid you’re going to break.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“No, I. It’s--me.”

 

Bucky shoots him a look. “Are you seriously trying to use the ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ line right now?”

 

“ I might fucking break ,” he finally spits out. “Not  you , me.” The words feel like they’ve been punched out of him and he’s breathing hard like he hasn’t in, god,  years . “Every time you get that look on your face like you can’t remember, but you know you should--every time you  do remember something and it looks like you wish you hadn’t--Jesus, Bucky.”

 

He doesn’t have to say the rest. They both understand that lead feeling of guilt. Steve knows that it isn’t his fault. There’s no way that it could have been, not really. Even if he had been able to prevent that fall--he  knows . But he’s still unable to shake the feeling. Next to him, Bucky exhales, long and soft. 

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“I know, Buck.”

 

\-----

 

“Are you letting me stay here because you feel guilty?” 

 

Steve knew he was there, had woken up the moment Bucky had opened up the door to his bedroom. He considers faking sleep, but he knows it wouldn’t work. Steve rolls over onto his side and looks up at Bucky. He’s dressed in what Steve’s come to consider his sleeping clothes, which consist primarily of an old pair of sweatpants Steve’s almost positive were stolen from him about the time his undershirt drawer got cleared out, and in deference to the chill, a t-shirt. His feet are still bare.

 

“No, of course not.” He idly wonders if he bought slippers for Bucky if he’d wear them.

 

“Because I know what guilt looks like on you, Rogers.”

 

And that’s fair. Steve’s always been brash, but sensitive, which is a combination that’s lead him to more than his fair share of guilt, some misplaced, most of which Bucky’s been present for or laughed at. Hell, he’s wondered the same thing himself more than once. But it’s Bucky. And that’s--Steve’s come to accept that that’s it. 

 

“I feel guilty about a lot of things, Buck.” It’s been a little over a week since their discussion on the couch. He sighs. “Mostly about all the things I can’t change, that’d I’d do over. Not this, though.”

 

“Why?” Bucky moves a little closer, and Steve tracks the movement easily, even in the dark.

 

He’s not sure if Bucky’s asking why Steve invited him into his home, or why he doesn’t feel guilty. He’s not sure that it really matters. “Til the end of the line, Bucky,” he says because  that , that more than any other thing, does matter.

 

The noise Bucky makes is low and wounded, and for a half a second, Steve thinks that somehow he’s managed to fuck this up--the one thing that means more to him than anything else. But instead, Bucky just moves the rest of the way to the bed. Steve rolls onto his back, looking up into the darkness and Bucky’s unreadable face. Then he scoots over and peels back the blankets.

 

Bucky slips into bed and immediately sticks his cold feet against Steve’s. He tugs the covers back up over them and begins the careful process of manhandling Steve into the configuration that he wants. Steve falls asleep with Bucky’s warmth pressed alongside his back and an arm draped carefully over his waist. His arm is tucked up under his pillow, and he can feel the barest metallic chill of Bucky’s other arm alongside it. Bucky exhales softly, and Steve doesn’t think that he’s imagining the faint press of lips against the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

 

“End of the line,” Bucky echoes.

  
  
  



End file.
